


A Letter

by earsXfeet6669



Category: Real Person Fiction, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earsXfeet6669/pseuds/earsXfeet6669
Summary: Tolstoy writes a letter, and realises something
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Leo Tolstoy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. A Letter

**Author's Note:**

> It is possible more of this may be written. Let me know if you guys want more! I love comments <3

Sofia Tolstaya was out, and Count Leo Tolstoy was left alone with his masterpiece.  
It wasn't a masterpiece yet though. His wife hadn't got around to editing and publishing it, and some of the characters seemed off to him - that Hélène in particular. He made a mental note to add some more staring at her arms; no woman can be clever and aware of her own beauty. Surely then she would stop trying to steal the story from Pierre. 

He had just begun to write a letter - a common practise in 19th century Russia, or so he was told. It was to be from Anatole to Natasha, and would be the most eloquent of letters, one no woman could refuse. No, not Anatole. How stupid he was to think that Anatole, the self-centered fool, could write a letter such as this. An epistle of this scale, one with words longer than four letters, with such masterly use of repetition, could only have been penned by Dolokhov. Dolokhov, the icy-eyed fine-lipped soldier, fierce enough to walk right out of the book. No woman Tolstoy had met had come alive for him like this. Of course Dolokhov must have written this letter. 

Still he wrote, and the letter felt more and more personal by the second.  
'I cannot publish this,' he said, then started at the sound of his words in the air. 'Sofia cannot read this. The words cannot read this.' He tore the page out, but stopped just before feeding it to the fire. He could no more make his feelings reconcile than edit and publish his book himself. 

Sitting on his chair and reading through the letter by the light of the clear sky outside, he marvelled how little of it he remembered writing. Surely this was not his turn of phrase, surely this came straight from the mouth of Fedya himself. Fedya… it was a name he never thought could contain such meaning.  
Before he could think on it further, a servant entered. 

'There's a visitor outside. He looks a little disheveled, and his clothes are decades old, but he says he's here to see you. Should I let him in, sir?'

He was about to decline, to say he was deep in his work and wasn't to be disturbed, say the servant should have known better than to disrupt him like this, say anything to leave him a few more minutes with a letter he couldn't have written. But just then another man burst in behind the servant, a man in old army clothing but with no moustache, a man whose almost glowing blue orbs and strong hands left no doubt as to who it could be.  
As Count Leo Tolstoy fainted, Fedya Dolokhov was there to catch him.


	2. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who made this possibly be commenting last chapter <3  
> Special thanks to Mike from the comments, I'm so glad my writing has touched someone x

Tolstoy woke up to eyes staring into his own that were not the clear blue he expected. His servant was standing over him, saying 'sir, sir!'. A quick glance around the room revealed the eyes and fine lips he was looking for - Dolokhov sat in a chair by the fire, as much at ease as if he were in his own room.  
In looking at him, Tolstoy quite forgot the shouting of the servant. He was convinced that this man, his own creation though one he could never have predicted, would follow him anywhere. Must follow him anywhere. Tolstoy felt convinced that Dolokhov would feel that same love for him that Nikolai felt for the Tsar, and rejoiced in that feeling.  
'Sir, I hate to interrupt, but the most strange young woman is outside.'  
'Don't show her in,' replied Tolstoy, 'I'll go out to meet her.'  
Outside, a little to the left, stood the young woman in question. The sky bathed over her like her lover. Before Tolstoy could register anything about her, she opened her mouth to speak.  
'Something stupid,' she said.  
'Something stupid,' replied voices behind her, and a group of young people fanned out from behind, seemingly all having hidden impossibly behind her.  
The most striking thing about them was not the peculiar and immodest clothing, nor the fact they seemed to have appeared from nowhere and were conversing in English. No, the thing that worried Tolstoy the most was that they were all armed, and looking at him with looks to say that the weapons were just for him.  
Weapons was a loose term. Some did carry bats, live ones and wooden ones, with carefully whittled wings and faces. Some carried elaborately carved swords or knives. One was accompanied by an abominable hybrid of what seemed to be different kinds of birds, or perhaps, in some lights, a raccoon. One merely wore a badge labelled 'Mike', another eyeless, a third holding some strange, almost metaphysical cheese. The one that caught his attention most though, the one that made him shudder with fear, was the one currently pushing to the front, holding a set of neatly polished cutlery.  
Now, some explanation may be needed here. Cutlery in itself is not particularly murderous. However, dear reader, what I know and you may not, is that Tolstoy had written, and subsequently deleted, a scene involving the soldier now standing beside him, and a table. To see the implements in this strange antagonist's hand filled Tolstoy with a jealousy he could not properly name.  
As this queer crowd approached from the left, Dolokhov took Tolstoy's hand and together they made a stately retreat around to the right. On their way they tripped over a strange man in foreign religious garb, apparently tending to peas. The man swore 'damn' in his head so vehemently Tolstoy seemed to hear it, then the two were away.  
This was not how his morning was meant to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there's anything/one you'd like to see next chapter!! I hope you like the brief change we have here ^-^

The sound of feet had subsided enough that Dolokhov motioned Tolstoy to rest behind a pillar in his estate. Tolstoy silently and unquestioningly slid down behind it. He was probably in shock.  
If Dolokhov was here before him now, were there others? Was Anatole Kuragin even now seducing one of his own servants, lavishing compliments on her face, her feet, her hair? Perhaps Prince Andrei himself was staring up at the sky of Tolstoy's grounds. What a privilege, to be staring at the same sky as his noblest character. Could Tolstoy have conjured Napoleon from his grave? It was possible, though he hadn't made his formal entrance into the book yet. What about Pierre? Surely he was even more likely than Dolokhov, and Tolstoy suddenly wished he'd made him a little less violent.   
He stared back at the sky, which was turning blues and golds by turn. As he looked it changed its mind, shifting into greens and browns. Stars appeared and disappeared at random. At least three moons peaked out from behind the trees, and the sun shone warm overhead.   
Tolstoy silently wished it would make up its mind, and went back to the more interesting view: the man sitting next to him. Dolokhov turned, asking,  
'Are you ready to go?'  
'To where?'  
'Anywhere. Anywhere that strange group can't find us. Though I doubt we can hide for long. If they're anything like me…'  
He was silent for a while.   
'Then what?'  
'If they're anything like me they'll feel drawn to you. Though unlike my… gratitude, their sentiments are far less well-meaning.' He shrugged himself up. 'Shall we get moving?'

\------------------------

The group of people did not, in fact feel drawn to Tolstoy. Well, the main group. One of the people Tolstoy had encountered did feel the desire to walk towards his hiding spot, but mistaking it for hunger or the need to visit the privy, went inside the still-unlocked door instead.   
Gregor Mendel entered the house of Count Leo Tolstoy, and headed straight for the study. This wasn't on purpose, but the man he followed was jumping about from foot to foot, and Gregor assumed that by following him he would eventually find something of use.   
Gregor followed silently, thanks to all his years in a monastery, and was far behind enough that when he reached the study he could see that same man rifling through the papers on the desk.  
'My friend, what are you doing?' He asked in concern.   
The man jumped two metres, then stopped to rub his newly bruised head.   
'Andrei,' he said, pointing to himself and affecting an awful Russian accent.   
'What are you doing here, do you not know that trespass and theft are sins?'  
'Yes, but you see I was talking to this group of people outside, and they mentioned that, for my adaptation of War and Peace, I might find a scene that would be of interest to me? A nice girl said something about a table, and then winked, which seemed confusing.' He forgot and remembered his accent seemingly at random, though he made a valiant effort to keep his moustache on, and patted his gaudy uniform.   
Mendel blinked. That didn't seem a strong enough reaction, so he blinked a few more times, then said 'heck' loudly in his head for good measure. 'Andrei' visibly recoiled, and went back to rifling through the papers.   
At last, he held a flimsy sheet up to the light.   
'This is perfect! It's the missing piece! Ah, my audience will love this!' He said, then ran out of the room before Mendel could say another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry I haven't been updating as often as I'd like, I know you guys are desperate for more :)  
> That said, I'm so worn out by nano that this has turned out to be about three sentences I like, and the rest feel like they were written by a five year old. But hey, we're four chapters in. Can't wait for the Christmas special!

Dolokhov clearly had no idea where they were going, because after about an hour of parading around the estate like they were fighting the french, occasionally passing the same statue three or four times in a row, they were back at Tolstoy's main entrance once again.  
Luckily the strange group of people that were outside before were nowhere to be found, though worried that in the long run that was the more distressing option. As he peered anxiously around, expecting to see a stranger running at him with a bat in their hand and murder in their eyes, he was so lost in worry he didn't notice the man running out his door and whooping in relief until they collided.  
Past the momentary shock of the impact, and past the momentary disappointment of the person he had had so much physical contact with not being Dolokhov, he gathered himself enough to ask what the man was doing in his house, how he had let himself in,   
'And what is that piece of paper?'  
The piece of paper… Tolstoy remembered the love letter, the letter that had really been about… no, it wasn't that. On this paper Hélène's name stood out, as did the words table, and Dinner and Dol—  
It was simply a scene he'd cut out but failed to properly burn. It wasn't a bill, it wasn't correspondence from friends, and it wasn't the letter he didn't remember writing but knew was addressed to himself.  
'War and Peace' be damned, you might as well write a story about… about a whale, or some other such fish. Too much had happened to worry about plagiarism.   
The man had said nothing, so Tolstoy spoke again.   
'Take your leave, whatever your name is'  
'Andrei, Andrei Davies...iov. I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Tolstoy. I wished for this, I wished for a final scene to be my masterpiece, and it has happened. Thank you sir, for your great work waiting to be adapted by me, I suppose, but mostly for gifting me this scene!'  
Then the man wandered away, muttering something about how he was sure he was dreaming, how he hoped to remember it when he woke up, how this would revolutionise his War and Peace. His War and Peace? Tolstoy would be sure he himself was dreaming, if he thought himself capable of a creation this strange, with so few pointless interludes about war and philosophy, and so many female characters with complex character traits. But I digress.   
Checking again for angry teenagers, Tolstoy followed this Andrei. He barely heeded Dolokhov behind him, who seemed to be trying to convince him to turn around, and find another path. He heard the melodious voice, but none of the words sank in as he turned a corner only to find his lead completely disappeared, and in his place an aberration in space, a twisting thing of many colours that wasn't there when he looked away but returned brighter than before when his gaze was eventually drawn back. Tolstoy looked at it, looked back at Dolokhov's frantic motions to stay away and panicked but beautiful blue eyes, took Dolokhov's fine hand in his and stepped closer to it.   
As he turned around to examine it from every angle, one golden thread of his coat got caught in the strange shimmer. The hole in space tugged on it, then tugged on him, then Dolokhov was trying to pull him out, and the last thought that entered Tolstoy's mind was how there was no one he'd rather have fail to rescue him. Then he blacked out for the second time that day.


End file.
